


the knife i turn inside myself

by emollience



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Beast Island, Catra (She-Ra)-centric, Character Study, F/F, First Kiss, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 11:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18810070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emollience/pseuds/emollience
Summary: “Those are just stories,” Adora always said. Her lip trembled. She held Catra’s hand tight, tight enough to cut the circulation, but Catra squeezed back.“Then how do you explain her?” Lonnie volleyed back. She pointed a pudgy hand at Catra. “You know she’s from there.”“Am not,” Catra grumbled.“Beasts with razor sharp teeth, and claws, and eyes that glow, and glow in the dark,” Lonnie sang into the night, her voice carrying and echoing in the barracks. “They’ll feast on your flesh and make a meal out of your heart.”*catra, on beast island.





	the knife i turn inside myself

You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love.

— **Franz Kafka,** from “Letters to Milena: Expanded and Revised in a New Translation”

 

This was Catra’s earliest memory:

She was sitting at the highest corner of the Fright Zone. Years from then, she would still curl up in this hidden corner, far from the prying eyes and hissing remarks. She would learn to climb onto the railing, find her balance, and stare out into the dripping, oozing green of the Horde’s center, wishing for freedom, or anything like it. The view never changed. It would never change.

She was sitting up at the highest corner of the Fright Zone. She was five years old. She stared beyond the Fright Zone, at the scenery that would never change. When she squinted, she could make out the edges of the Whispering Woods. They were tall, dark. She thought, _It can’t be as bad as they say_. She thought, _With my claws I can make it._

This was Catra’s earliest memory. Huddled up tight, tight, with skinny arms around her knobby knees, her tail curled around her small body. The sickening, greenish ooze that hung over the Fright Zone sticking her matted hair to the back of her neck. She was tiny. Vulnerable. Down below, cadets marched on. Up above, the three moons hung far, far out of reach.

Footsteps reached her. Footsteps always found her. She came into existence dreading the footfalls of others, she was sure. She curled up further, shaking, except the blow never came. She looked up and found a pair of shining blue eyes staring down at her.

“You’ll get in trouble up here,” said the girl, all gappy mouth. Her chubby hand, a loose fist, pressed against her chest.

“I want to go home,” Catra said. Where home was she couldn’t remember. “I want to go home. Why can’t I go home?”

The girl fell to her knees next to Catra. She didn’t touch her. She sat back on her haunches and said, “You’re from outside the Fright Zone?” Catra nodded. The girl let out a quiet, excited breath of air. “Can you tell me what it’s like?”

This was Catra’s earliest memory: Adora, small and pudgy, sitting close and listening while she, so young and even smaller, struggled to put words to jungles, and vines, and a world beyond oozing greens and scary witches. Adora, smiling, reaching a hand out. Adora, voice sure as anything as she said, “We’ll look out for each other now.”

 

*

 

Catra awoke covered in cold sweat. Her throat burned; ached. It took a solid minute for her to orient her surroundings. There were bunks, just like the cadet barracks, bolted right to the floor; no windows; chests and bags cast in a net hanging off the wall; a single set of stairs leading up above. She rested on the bottom bunk.

Staring right at her from another bunk laid an older woman with antlers. Whispering Woods folk, then, judging by the white fur and golden eyes and curling antlers. She laid on her bunk, wrapped in a single threadbare blanket. When she smiled, she smiled with a gap where her front two teeth should be. “We’re not making it out of this one, kid.”

 

*

 

Eight prisoners, including herself. The rest of the ship consisted of faceless Horde soldiers with blasters and stun guns at ready, and a single sea captain. None of the soldiers listened to her, even as she pointed at the Force Captain badge gleaming steady at her chest. She yelled. She pushed. She demanded, and demanded, until finally she was knocked unconscious with the butt of a blaster.

She awoke on her bunk, again, that same gap mouthed woman smiling back at her. She said, “No power here, not even for Horde scum,” and spat at the floor between them.

 

*

 

Beast Island was a death sentence. The older cadets liked to crowd around the new recruits and poke, and prod, and whisper nasty things about the fabled land; liked, in particular, to pull at Catra’s tail and tell them all, “That’s where beasts like this one came from.”

Adora always stepped forward with her hands on her hips, shoulders pulled back straight, and told them, “I’ll report you for improper conduct. How do you think Shadow Weaver would like knowing that you’re all bullying a bunch of kids?” She glared up at them in all her four foot glory until they scrambled.

Still, the stories spread like disease in the night. Lonnie, with a flashlight beneath her chin, relaying ghost stories, horror stories. Kyle, shaking like a loose tree branch, until Rogelio wrapped him up in a blanket. The stories about beasts with teeth like daggers; about monsters with endless arms, endless eyes; about people, just like them, except crawling on broken limbs, ready and eager to feast on their flesh.

“Those are just stories,” Adora always said. Her lip trembled. She held Catra’s hand tight, tight enough to cut the circulation, but Catra squeezed back.

“Then how do you explain her?” Lonnie volleyed back. She pointed a pudgy hand at Catra. “You know she’s from there.”

“Am not,” Catra grumbled.

“Beasts with razor sharp teeth, and claws, and eyes that glow, and glow in the dark,” Lonnie sang into the night, her voice carrying and echoing in the barracks. “They’ll feast on your flesh and make a meal out of your heart.”  

 

*

 

None of the other prisoners were Horde. Some were Rebellion soldiers, taken post-battle. Some were high profile politicians, taken mid-siege. They regarded her with clear mistrust; some with open hatred. She didn’t care. She kept her chin held high. She kept her arms crossed and carried on.

The boat sailed on, and on. She lost track of the days since she awoke. It didn’t matter, regardless. Beast Island was a death sentence. She might as well have signed her own death certificate the second she lied to Hordak. She was a dead woman walking, but it lent her a sense of calm. A temporary lull to the anger that had brimmed so hot and heavy underneath her flesh for so long.

In the dark, she sifted through her mistakes: looking towards Shadow Weaver; trusting Hordak; wanting Adora. The last one stung a familiar pain. In the dark, she could admit to the tension that fizzled between them in those long months before a fall in the woods, and the boiling, pure want in the aftermath. She had seen it in Adora’s eyes when she stood over her with a sword, the snow blowing in spirals around them both. Had felt the exhilaration at the knowing, the uncompromising surety that she was as much the spinning axis of Adora's world as she was hers. 

It never mattered. Catra never got what she wanted, anyways.

 

*

 

Too soon, the ship docked. They slapped cuffs on her wrists and all but shoved Catra out into the glaring mid-noon moon. Her feet touched sand, the blaring moonbeam warmed her paling skin, and she was on Beast Island, no longer the Horde’s second-in-command, but a prisoner.

 

*

 

“Right at home,” said one of the soldiers, releasing Catra from the cuffs. A smile curled around the words, even with their expression hidden behind the helmet’s green visor. “You’ll fit right in, Force Captain.”

 

*

 

The prisoners were free to roam around the island. Catra explored the jungles; tugged on the coiling vines; hunted for food with nothing but her wits and claws. She counted the days using the traction of the third moon, the largest one with its glowing yellow rays, and learned how best to avoid predators.

It was on the second week that she ran into another living being.

The man was tall, at least a head over Catra, with a long, dark beard. His hair tumbled in matted curls below his shoulders, and his robes were ripped, the colors faded with age.

Catra hissed, body curving into a crouch, her claws unsheathed. The man held his hands up, palms raised high.

“You’re a magicat,” he said.

“And you’re a dumbass,” she replied. “Get out of here.”

“I wasn’t aware this area was taken. I apologize.” Yet, he remained still.

Catra hissed, again, and climbed up a tree. She crouched on a thick branch and waited, glaring down at him until he eventually moved on. He used a stick carved into a cane to poke at the ground. He favored his left side. She didn’t come down till he wandered far out of sight.

 

*

 

“You’re kidding me,” she said two days later.

The man grinned and raised his hands once more. “This island is only so big.”

“So drown in the ocean.” She climbed another tree. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

 

*

 

“My name is Micah,” he told her the next time he stumbled onto her camp.

“I don’t care,” she replied. She sat on a tree stump, chewing on bits of charred woodchuck. “I’m not sharing my food.”

He frowned. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

She licked at the spare grease rolling down the bump of her wrist. “Good. Leave.”

“I was hoping — You see,” he said, anyways, taking a step forward. Catra bared her teeth. He faltered. “You’re the first person I’ve seen survive for quite some time. The other prisoners that came with you —“ Catra scoffed. Micah frowned; continued. “They died pretty quick.”

“Pity,” she said.

“You’re wearing a Force Captain badge,” he pointed out.

“No shit.”

“Why would the Horde send one of their own here?”

“Because,” she said, “the Horde is a fucking cesspool of bullshit. Are we done here?”

He looked down at the ground, scowling. He leaned on his cane, still favoring that left side. “Bright Moon. How is Bright Moon?”

She groaned. “Ugh, should’ve known you were one of those bleeding hearts.” She saw it, now, in the faded lavender of his robes; the faint laugh lines around his mouth. He screamed _power of friendship_ and _peace_. “Bright Moon’s fine. Still a fortress of hope, or whatever.”

He leaned forward, eyes frantic. “And the queen? Do you know of the queen and princess?”

“Jeez, yeah, yeah I do. Back off, man.” She threw the woodchuck’s bones into the dying fire pit. “They’re fine. All dandy. Real pain in the ass, both of them.”

He sagged. He pressed a hand to his chest and clenched his eyes shut, shuddering breath escaping him. Catra tilted her head. Her eyes narrowed. Something about his eyes, the line of his jaw —

“Thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you.”

 

*

 

They settled into a routine, soon enough. Catra hunted for food. Micah prepared and cooked it all. He found them water and taught her all the best spots to rest while avoiding the island’s natural predators. Sometimes they talked. Most often they didn’t.

“Not much for conversation,” he commented, once, only to smile when she grunted in response.

It was convenient, in the sense that she had less work to do. She liked climbing, and hunting, and navigating through the island, but didn’t much care to find herself face to face with any of the monsters other cadets spent nights weaving tall tales about. It was easier, too, this way. Less time to think about Shadow Weaver’s hand curling in the tuft of her hair, or Hordak’s looming form as she struggled for air, or Adora’s tearful gaze as she dropped the sword into an unknown abyss.

 

*

 

“I’m the queen’s husband,” Micah said one morning. He stared at the early moonrise, the first moon’s iridescent pink form peaking over the horizon. He leaned on his cane. “Bright Moon’s prince consort.”

Catra tilted her head, considering. “How’d you manage that one?”

His lips quirked in a smile. “I ask myself that every day.” He turned towards her, eyes crinkled at the corners. “And what of you? Anyone waiting for you back home?”

She thought of Scorpia, with her earnest naivety, the way she stumbled through an invitation to _hang out_. She thought of Entrapta sitting on Hordak’s throne, the way she leaned forward to excitedly ramble on and on while Hordak almost smiled back at her, his chin in hand. Unbidden, she remembered the weight of Adora’s hand wrapped around her wrist, “I never wanted to leave you,” leaving her mouth so easy, so honestly.

She hummed. She crossed her arms over her chest, gaze falling away, and said, “Not really.”

 

*

 

“Have you ever thought of escaping?” she asked him, weeks later.

Micah laughed. “Of course! That’s all I’ve thought of for years.”

Catra smiled. “Then I have a plan.”

 

*

 

Beast Island was a death sentence. The stories were right. At night, she heard the stomping of hooves; the blood-curdling screams. Monsters and beasts with fangs, and claws, and innumerable horrors, just beyond the shadows. They feasted on prisoners in a steady stream, the sacrifices coming in constant.

The ships cycled every three weeks, Micah said. Like clockwork. Unless a storm raged in the seas there was never delay. The Horde brought in the shackled prisoners and left them to the beasts’ mercy. The ships were left unguarded, unprotected, except for the sea captain while they marched the living corpses off the beach and into the jungles.

Catra and Micah hid at the edges of the woods, waiting. Micah still favored his left side, but the pendant hanging off his neck glittered in the shadows. The magic pulsed around him, like a heart beat. They waited. They watched the new set of prisoners step onto the beach and blink in the glaring right. They were nothing new, nothing different, until another set of feet touched down on the sand.

Her breath caught in her throat. She took off, ignoring Micah’s strangled protest.

She tackled the nearest Horde solider and swiped at their throat. While they choked on the burst of blooming blood, she swiped their blaster and shot at the incoming soldier. Another tried to reach for her. She pivoted; smashed their helmet in with the butt of the blaster, and then used their own stun gun against them.

“Catra,” a familiar voice said. “Catra!”

With bodies surrounding her, the burning moonlight hot on her skin, Catra rested a hand on her hip and grinned. “Hey, Adora.”

 

*

 

“You’re so stupid,” she said, wrapping Adora’s bruised, bloody hands up in bandages. The newly freed batch of prisoners slept below deck while Micah steered the ship. The two of them took up residence in the captain’s cabin. “You really thought getting captured —“

Adora laughed. “It wasn’t my greatest plan, but you gotta appreciate the gesture.”

“Yeah, I would’ve really appreciated it after finding your body half eaten.”

“Aw, I knew you cared.” Adora flexed her bandaged hands. She hid the slight flinch. “Thanks.”

The ship rocked steady beneath them. They sat on the floor, close enough for their knees to touch. Catra expected anger, mostly; expected Adora’s rage to simmer in those blue-gray eyes of hers, for that corner of her mouth to twist into that pained grimace. She looked — different. Calmer. Her hair hung loose, slightly longer, brushing past her shoulders. She still wore her Horde jacket, like a stain.

“How’d you even know —”

“Scorpia,” answered Adora. “She came to Bright Moon in a panic. But we didn’t…” She scowled; flexed her hands once more. Later, Catra thought to herself. She’d ask about that later. “I left, a few nights ago. Just to see if Hordak would actually send me here.”

“You got your answer,” Catra said. She pulled herself up. She leaned on the desk propped by the window and stared out at the endless blue stretching miles and miles around them. “Even if it was a stupid question.” A pause. She looked over her shoulder. Her hair, so much longer, brushed across her back. “I didn’t need to be rescued.”

Adora blinked. She pushed off the floor and came to stand next to her. “I had to try. I couldn’t just leave you there.” Catra scoffed. Frowning, Adora touched her shoulder. “I’m serious.”

“You’ve left me before.” Catra shrugged off the hand. “Can’t really have expected me to sit and wait for my princess in shining armor.”

“You know it’s not about that. It’s never been about rescuing you. I know you can take care of yourself.”

“Do you?”

Adora sighed. “Catra.” She sat on the corner of the desk, turned towards Catra, a leg hanging off. She reached towards her again, only to let her hand fall away. “I know you can. You can. I just — I’ve just always wanted to.” Her eyes, wide and dark, were intent on Catra’s face. “You know that. You have to have known that.”

Catra stared down at that hand, the familiar length of Adora’s fingers, the short, chewed on fingernails. She dragged her gaze up, lingering on the pink of Adora’s mouth. “What about what I want?” Her eyes met Adora’s.

Silence curled around them. Adora’s cheek hollowed, probably gnawing at the inside of her mouth. This time, when she spoke, she spoke slow, with purpose, “What do you want?”

The bangs Adora clipped back fell loose long ago, before the island. They hung limp and damp against the bright flush of Adora’s cheek. Her mouth was just as bright a stain, broken only by the edge of a healing bruise rising up her chin. Catra leant in close. She watched Adora’s lips part, the soft inhalation. She met her eyes and said, “Nothing you can give.”

“Catra,” Adora breathed. She blinked; sat back, seemingly dazed. The swell of her chest heaved with a heavy breath. “What?”

“What would it change?” She rested a palm on Adora’s knee. She stepped forward, and forward, until she stood between Adora’s legs. “You wanting me. Me wanting you. What would it change?”

“Everything,” Adora said. She leaned forward and cradled Catra’s cheek in her hand. “Everything. Don’t you get that? You’re not — You’re not with the Horde, anymore. You can —”

“Don’t say I can join the Rebellion. You know I won’t.”

Adora frowned. She brushed the pad of her thumb over Catra’s cheek. “Then where would you go?”

Leaning into her touch, Catra said, “I don’t know. Anywhere else.”

“Okay,” Adora said. Her thumb skimmed the corner of Catra’s mouth. “We won’t dock at Bright Moon, then. I’ll — I’ll have Micah stop somewhere else. A village, or something. Somewhere you can get supplies.”

“Always planning how to get rid of me, huh?” Catra smiled. At Adora’s frown, she turned and pressed her lips over the soft underside of her wrist. “I’m joking. Turning into a princess really drained all the humor out of you, huh?”

“Shut up.” She scooted closer to the edge of the desk. Her thighs caged around Catra’s hips. “Can I —”

Catra kissed her. She kissed her, slow and deep, hands resting at her hips, drawing her closer, closer, until their bodies breathed no space between them. Adora’s body was warm and firm and sure against her own. Adora’s hands clutched at the back of her head, and then her waist, and then everywhere, never still, always moving and moving, until Catra was panting into her mouth. She drew her own hands beneath the hem of Adora’s jacket. She pulled at the bottom of her shirt until she could touch the soft skin of her back. She dragged her claws, feather soft, up and up until she found the raised, bumpy ridges of long healed scars splicing up her skin.

“Catra,” Adora breathed.

“I’m still leaving.” She kissed at Adora’s jaw, the space below her ear. She drew her teeth over her neck. “I’m still —”

“I know.” Adora said. “I know.”

 

*

 

The ship docked in Salineas, days later. Micah hugged her, which she tolerated for a minute until she flinched back with a glare. The bag at her back bulged with too many supplies, and more than enough cans of food, but Adora still worried at her lip.

Right as Catra began to descend back to land, Adora grabbed her wrist. “When will I see you again?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Soon, probably.”

“You promise?”

Catra smiled. “I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> i gotta be honest i wrote this in one sitting and now i'm a husk of a woman


End file.
